To Hell and Back
by Lizard Pie
Summary: Sealand knew storms were hell.  If he couldn't protect his parents, he'd at least protect Denmark.  Definitely not the other way around.


Sealand didn't know Danish, nor did he really want to beyond the crude phrases Denmark would teach him in whispers behind his Papa's back. He knew what he was hearing then, around the roar from outside and his own heavy breath, was a lullaby only because it was a rhythm he was used to.

It was a light language on a thick tongue, and so different than what he'd become used to with England. But, then, England had been fond of telling him all about hell for disobedient children, and the thickness was probably intended for dramatic effect. England obviously feared fire, and he spoke of this place with fear and reverence even if he was wrong.

Hell had nothing to do with fire, after all. Hell was full of black water pounding against the walls and lightning filling the sky. Hell had leaks that wouldn't plug and cold water that'd swallow someone up.

England had been a sailor at one point, someone said. He should have known better.

The world outside the Dane's windows had fallen into chaos as the storm fought to get into the house. Along the coasts, the water rose up the beaches in slaps of sea froth. Sealand was sure the same went on back home, and Mama clung to Papa in bed like a child. He needed to be protected, and he would have been had the weather not turned after he'd left the Oresundtrain. Well, no, he would have been if that bastard Dane hadn't been so insistent that he didn't go back just because he'd jumped once. As if it was his fault the thunder was so loud.

A nation as powerful as Sealand didn't need to retreat into a house, however warm it might be. Nor did he need to be held, to have his hair stroked while the world raged.

Denmark continued to sing, his voice just barely audible over the wind. He rocked Sealand because he was allowed to, and Sealand rewarded him with tears to calm. If he wasn't able to protect Finland, he'd at least help his uncle.

His uncle, however, didn't seem all that concerned with the potential water ascending the front steps, the stairs, and then into the bedroom. He hadn't gone downstairs once to check for leaks. Maybe he thought he was high enough, or maybe this was just his normal foolhardiness which was going to make them both drown.

His Papa's house was far inland, at least. This house was on the water because Denmark liked to pretend he could see Norway. That was fine for football and swimming, but now they were condemned. Papa had called Denmark a lot of things that his Mama had quietly agreed with. From the fact that the songs had drifted together near seamlessly without a hint of concern… they might have been right.

"Don't you care?" Sealand asked, his eyes focused on one of the cloth-covered pectorals.

The singing, petting, and rocking stopped slowly, like it had taken some time for Denmark to digest what was asked. "Care about what?"

"That we're going to drown," Sealand told him.

He didn't need to look up to see the grin spread on Denmark's face or the cogs which turned within his head.

"If the water gets too high, we'll just go for a swim."

He scoffed. "You can't swim against floodwater, stupid."

"The King of Northern Europe can," Denmark told him. He stated it with pride almost as much as with the sort of boredom that came from reciting an unquestionable fact. "We'll ride the water down to Germany, and I'll show you where you can get the best cake you've ever eaten."

"Papa makes…"

"'Papa' makes shit compared to this stuff."

When Sealand didn't reply, it all started up again as casually as it had stopped. He figured that Denmark had probably run out of lullabies a long time ago, and had taken to singing whatever song came to mind like a slow ballad. He didn't know the words, but he was fairly sure that this had been dance music on the radio the other day.

The rain continued to beat mercilessly against the window. The black water of the North Sea would continue to churn until morning and there wasn't a single thing that could be done.

"It had better be the best cake," Sealand told him. His eyes wanted to close, but he forced them to stare at the wall. "Or I won't forgive you."

The song was interrupted with a chuckle, but nothing else changed.

Sealand had to wait until morning to see Hell be beaten back, and the world dry again.


End file.
